Abigail Moore

“Sometimes I would like to be a child again, and other times a woman made of snow.”
― Deirdre Sullivan, Tangleweed and Brine

“We seem to have lost the gift of patience, of waiting for time to unfold its story.”
― Mary Irish, Gardening in the Desert: A Guide to Plant Selection and Care

“An unreasoning tender love, of the kind sometimes engendered by Papa’s best French champagne or the melancholy cooing of pigeons on a Spring afternoon, filled her heart to overflowing. A love that included Marion, waiting with a flinty smile for Miranda to have done with Edith’s nonsense. Tears sprang to her eyes, but not of sorrow. She had no desire to weep. Only to love, and shaking out her ringlets she got up off the rock where she had been lying in the shade and began to dance.”
― Joan Lindsay, Picnic at Hanging Rock

“Everything if only you could see it clearly enough, is beautiful and complete – the ragged nest, Marion’s torn muslin skirts fluted like a nautilus shell, Irma’s ringlets framing her face in exquisite wiry spirals – even Edith, flushed and childishly vulnerable in sleep.”
― Joan Lindsay, Picnic at Hanging Rock